


20 Seconds

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Black Dog, Caught, Chases, Chasing, F/M, Fingering, Handcuffs, Hiding, Hunters & Hunting, Impala, Kissing, On the Run, Running, Running Away, SPN creatures challenge, Sex, Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering, Witches, sexually explicit content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6818611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re on a hunt.  You’re ready for a hunt.  There will be a hunt, dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Awcrap,” Sam moans.  “You know what? I’m wrong.”

“Sam’s wrong?” you say. “That’s _odd_.”

“What?” Dean flinches and speaks up so that there’s no mistake at Sam’s end of the call.  “What do you mean wrong?”

“Yeah, I’m wrong. There’s an article just popped up, they’ve been… Shit,” he must still be reading it.  “God dammit.”

“What kinda wrong?!” Dean snaps.

“The town’s 150 year anniversary is on Halloween so they’re doing it extra hard, making the most of the town’s history with witches, and they’ve been faking witchcraft and all sorts of things in the lead up to the 31st.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” you say, scrunching a cheek in disgust.  

You scowl at the shop across the busy commercial street from the Impala.  Sam had estimated at least two of them, operating under the front of an “earth-source apothecary” called Black Dog White Cat.  Whatever the fuck.  It’s white and hipster-slash-shabby-chic, which just annoys the shit out of you - mason jars, glass-stoppered bottles, little terrariums hanging from the roof, blackboard signage with art deco fonts, organic flannels and reusable coffee cups for kopi luwak coffee, and quinoa, lentils and kale.  Okay, now you’re just listing hippy foods, but _still_.  Fucking witches.  Or _not_ , as it turns out.  “How can they have a history of it and not know how dangerous that is?  That’s just stupid.”

“Well, that’s why they stopped,” he goes on.  “People were getting scared, calling the police.  That report that we thought was a Black Dog-?”

“Yeah, we’re lookin’ at a regular old black dog right now, in broad daylight,” Dean put it all together.

“Well, nothing came of it.  Who knows if that was authentic.  People freaked right out,” Sam says.  “There’re rumours the church, like, didn’t want to say nothing but not something.  Got a bit too authentic I think.”

“Dragged us here,” you say in agreement.

Well, it’s a relief, you suppose.  It’s a nice town.  There’re several shopping strips, some industry and office areas and a couple of schools.  Even a creek and a big recreation reserve, all on a nice green piece of flat country.  People must look for a place like this, you imagine, if they’re starting a family.  They wouldn’t be expecting the coven though.  Not that that’s a problem now.  Sigh.

“I told you we shouldna come till someone died,” Dean grumbled, shuffling in his seat out of frustration.

“Well that’s the good news; no one did.  In fact, no _thing_ either,” Sam says.  “Apparently they’ve been in cahoots with the local abattoirs, which explains the, uh, ‘evidence’.”

“Jesus, at least they’re dedicated,” Dean mutters.

“So Sam was wrong,” you say to him.  “Maybe _this_ is a case.”

Dean snorts and Sam offers a “Ha ha” for your benefit.

“Anyway, sorry guys,” Sam says.  “When do you think you’ll head back?”

“Not till morning,” Dean decides, none too happily.  “Not that there’s anything to do in this town.  It’s young family central.”

“You want me to get you some fancy hand cream Sam?” you offer.  “I hear it’s magical.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll see you guys tomorrow then?”

“Aaight,” Dean sighs, “see ya,” and cuts the call.

You and Dean sit there for a few seconds, squinting at the townsfolk wrapping up their Saturday afternoon shopping, obliviously moving around the car like it’s in a bubble from the future.  It’s maybe half an hour till closing time, everything looking picture perfect in the unseasonably warm Autumn evening.  Everything is fine.  Yet you scratch at your neck and chew your cheek… rub your thigh… and eventually huff in annoyance.  

No hunt.

You stare at the apothecary across the way, and seethe a little more.  Hipsters and Halloween. “Can’t we burn it down anyway?”

Dean pushes his feet into the well by the pedals and picks at the steering wheel.  You see him frowning, mincing his lips around in irritation.  No hunt for him either.

“Ugh, I’m so frustrated,” you sigh.  “I was ready for something dangerous, you know-” you pretend to dodge fire in your seat, “- makin’ up snappy comebacks that rhyme with witch.”

Dean chuckles at you, nodding.

“Hey, why don’t you ever run?” you ask him.  

“What? For _health_?  Why run?” he frowns.  “That sounds terrible.”

“Sam and I run, for when we need it. What do you do?”

Dean leans back thoughtfully. “I have a naturally high cardio pulmonary metabolism-”

“A naturally low comprehension of physiological terminology-”

“I just _can_. I can run.”

“I’ll give you 20 seconds,” you say and lean forward to pull off your flannel, readjusting your t-shirt.

“What?”

“A 20 second head start,” you repeat.  “My legs are itchy.  I want my hunt.  By the time I get things back in the trunk, I’m coming after you, ‘kay?”

Dean’s eyebrows are high, lips slack, and he looks sideways to think, then frowns, still confused. You get out of the car.

He gets out too saying “Hang on…  What?”

“Could you say _what_ again? Leave your jacket-”

“Are you seriously suggesting you chase me?” he asks.  He sounds like he doesn’t understand, or doesn’t believe you, but he’s still taking off his jacket.

“You think I can’t catch you?”

“I think it’s frikken unlikely,” he closes the door and locks it, shoves up the sleeves of his green Henley. “I’ve got longer legs. And you know I can run.”

“But for how long? I’ll tag you and we’ll swap-”

He scoffs. “You won’t tag me!”

“And then we’ll see how far I can get. Swap again.”  You offer it like it doesn’t matter and you don’t care.  Maybe it’ll be really short.  Maybe it won’t work at all.  Just a bit o’fun.

But he’s thinking about it, hands on hips, looking around the parking lot at the surrounding shops and businesses.  He’s planning already.

“20 seconds,” you promise.

Dean looks at you. Licks a lip, calculating.

“19…”

He’s like _Really?_

You bounce on your toes in mock warm-up. “Go-on Forrest.   _Nineteen!”_

He tries not to grin, but he is suddenly so fucking on board and the thrill of it zings up your spine.  You hear a quiet _Shit_ and off he goes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, seems you do have a hunt! Go you! Like, go!  
> Really. Fucking _go._

Dean can’t move that fast thanks to the crowds, so his head start is eaten up before he’s across the street.  The dog hops up and he gets distracted for a quick pat, then sees you approaching, negotiating traffic, and skedaddles.

He heads down a short mall to the main drag.  Turning left, he cuts a path through the busyness, which makes it easier for you to get speed behind him, then he breaks off the pavement to run beside parked cars, an easy bouncing gait along the light traffic for a bit before moving back onto the street via a pedestrian crossing. You’re both going quite quickly now, and you’re enjoying the dodging and the obstacles.

Something about Dean’s speed must shift from _Catch it before closing time_ to _Shit-shit-shit_ and someone puts you both together.

“Hey! Stop him!” echoes down the strip.

You think you hear Dean say _Oh my god_ and then he starts to really run.

You grin, thinking _Fuck yes!_ and spy a few brave guys ahead, sizing him up.

“No no!” he calls, waves his hands in front of him, “No, it’s not– _ooff!”_

Some big boy takes him out, sprawling on the concrete, and Dean rolls with it, hands up to show he means no harm.  Obviously, though, he means surrender.  “No! Wait!” he calls out, but the boy - someone in his late teens - hauls him up by the shirt front growling “I don’t think so you sonofabitch.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he gripes and there’s an audible gasp from the surrounding pedestrians.  

A handbag swings out of nowhere and smacks him on the head “You _fiend!”_

“Oh my _god!”_ His eyes dash about the crowd, full of stern and righteous townsfolk ready for pitchforkin’ and a-burnin’, and land on you, pleading.

You’ve slowed to a walk and push past a few shoulders, say “Thank you sir” and swing your fake Police badge before the crowd.

“What?!” Dean’s just talking under his breath now.

“Thank you everyone,” you announce and tuck the badge away.  Dean glares at you, and you try not to smirk.  You take his arm and wrist and shove him chest-first against the window of a travel agency, producing handcuffs from your other pocket.

“Cuffs?!”

“You have the right to remain silent-”

He cranes his neck to look at you, stunned, “What are you doing?!”

“Or not. Anything you say can be used against you in the court of law.  You have the right to an attorney.” You turn him around and grab a handful of shirt, holding him against the window again.

His mouth hangs open, wondering what the hell, _where_ the hell this is going.  You keep talking “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you,” and give just the slightest shrug of _Well, what else can I do?!_  “Do you understand these rights I have just read, uh, said to you?”

He blinks.

You wait.

Dean deflates, looks like he’s shaking his head on the inside, then sticks his jaw out a little, considering at the crowd again.  They’re super pissed.  He looks back at you, pointedly, waiting… for something… then mutters quietly “With these rights-?”

 _“With these rights_ in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”  Dammit.  Forgot a bit.

“Not right now,” he chews.

“Alright,” you take his arm and pull him along, walking away from the shops.

“Aren’t you going to get his name?” an older lady asks.  Dean frown at her purse.

“Sorry, ma’am?” you say.

“The lad who took him down,” she nods at Dean, who scowls at her and she scowls back. “You aren’t going to take the young man’s name? To thank him?”

God.  Dammit.  “Yes!  Thank you!  I almost forgot.”  

Glancing at Dean, you see he’s that entertained - _Go on, Officer Y/N, take the young man’s name_ \- he looks like he’s going to eat his own head from the inside out.  

You let him go, point at his face and warn him with a look as you pull out a notebook.  Dean squints at your pockets wondering where the hell you’re keeping all these things.

You step up to the guy, and take down his details.  Dean’s in the corner of your eye but the old lady is still there, her focus flipping between watching what you write and nailing Dean with her most threatening face.  He looks at her, eyebrows rising in concern and everything about her expression goes flat, her mouth a mere crease between the cheeks.  She leans towards him an inch: _Don’t you move, buster!_

Dean tucks his chin and tries to play contrite.

Meanwhile, you’re doing your fake job.  “Really? Seamus _MacDuffy_?”

“Yes,” he nods earnestly.

“Well, that’s a terribly Irish name for South Dakota.”

“It’s a family name.”

“Ye- well, _yeah_ …” _What?_  “Thanks again Seamus, you’re a regular hero.”

Seamus beams, walks away with a full chest, teetering and looking about like he’s on stilts, and you give the little old lady an official nod for keeping Dean in his place.  

Grabbing a handful of tricep, you lead him down the street and, after a quick glance to see that everyone has dispersed, push him into a deserted alley.

As soon as you’re undoing the cuffs, Dean starts whining “Okay, that doesn’t count.  I had miles on you!”

“What? It’s real life! You’re just relieved you didn’t have to do any proper distance,” you tell him, and he turns, giving his wrists a quick rub.  

He’s unimpressed at your point, chews his lip to keep an opinion inside.  “Well if that counts, then it’s a swap.”

You fall serious, taking a second to check he means it. “Gimme 30.”

“What?! No!  20 coz you’re such a good runner.”

“Handicap for you being taller!”

“Oh _now_ it counts.  Fine,” he grins, “I’ll still catch you… 30…29…”

And you’re off.

Down the alley, hang a left and then a right.  You’re starting to enjoy the bounce and push in your feet, your thighs and calves heating up, the edges of muscles and lungs awakening, all of you lit with the unnameable excitement of being chased.  You cut down a narrow break between buildings - something Dean‘ll feel like doing sideways - and come out on another shopping strip.  You slow things down a little, back to a power walk, because if people see a woman being chased it could change the whole thing.

You get out of the crowd as soon as you can, through a mechanic’s shop to the rear street.  Grabbing the chain fence at the back exit, you catch sight of Dean jogging into the garage driveway and he sees you and crouches to dash.  You run, up the residential street, full pelt, all of you jolting tight against each quick stride on the asphalt.  With no other traffic around you can easily hear his footfalls down the road behind you, and they’re getting louder.

You notice the house blocks to your right go through to the next road.  You cross the street, jump a short fence and head down the driveway.  The sounds change again.  Your breath is starting to labour a little.  This isn't like the distance stuff you do with Sam; it’s got bursts of exertion through the interesting terrain, plus a hell of an adrenaline kick with Dean on your tail, and now your steps are echoing between weatherboard houses and wooden fences, dashing around parked cars and jumping yard toys.  

The house’s other frontage has a high wire fence.  Two fast climbs and you can lean your body over it, hold the top rail and grab some fence in the middle to flip your legs over.  There’s Dean behind you, inside the house lot, jumping in as you jump out.  You’ve never seen him run at you before.  Jeez he’s big.  You fucking move.  

You head right, back towards the shopping strip but this road doesn't go that far.  Across the parked cars and footpath you see a clump of foliage nestled between the houses - a tree-lined track into a park where one of the witch sacrifices was supposedly found.  You’re barely more than halfway there when you hear Dean clear the fence with a grunt.

Down the path it changes again, the gravel snaking its way between trees. A few blind corners and you’re starting to forget which way goes where.  You try not to laugh as you overtake a jogger; it’s a bit easier to suppress the giggles when you hear Dean somewhere behind you.  At a junction you turn right again and shortly come out onto a recreation field.

 _Shit_ , you think.   _Shit no!_  In an open space Dean has the advantage, provided he’s still got the wind, so you hotfoot it to get some distance.  There’s a rustle from the path, a smacked bush and then the tell-tale _Huh_ of Dean seeing his chance.  You swing right again and Dean can see your plan, puffing _F-ck!_

At the edge of the field, there’s a slide, a great big long red one, with a tunnel at the top, and it goes all the way down a bank toward the playground, creek and carpark.  You hop on like it’s first base, and scoot down way faster than you expected.

But it’s made for kids and Dean is not little.  He shuffles down the rubber ground beside it, gets on after the tunnel, and slides, eyes on you the whole time.  

You were hoping to find something else that was child-sized, something you could use to stall him but you’re hardly going to get cover in a bucket swing.  And climbing won’t help either.  The problem is, you’re slowing down to judge, deciding what to aim for, and Dean only has to aim for you.

There’s a shelter for picnic benches and you mean to get around it, maybe create a stand off to get your breath back, or even bush-bash down along the creek, but as you run through the play equipment you can’t even bring yourself to look back.  You hear the smack of hands on poles, tan bark crunching, light grunts getting so much closer, then your shirt is tugged, then elbow hooked and Dean gets a tight hold on your wrist.  He climbs his hands up your arm as both of you slow, and when you do come to a stop, you lean on your knees and he lays a forearm on your shoulder to rest his head a bit.

“Huh!  Fuck!” he wheezes.  “Fuck!”

“We’ve hardly gone half a mile,” you puff, grinning.  

Dean’s feet walk a little on the spot, tingling from exertion.  “Fuck!  Shuttup a minute.”

You laugh under his weight and pat his hand on your arm.  He adjusts his hold, no intention of letting go.

“You want some water?” you ask.  He doesn’t answer, so you head over to the drinking fountain a few yards away, Dean letting you lead him blind.  When he takes his turn he still doesn’t let go.  “You right there?”

“Nu-uh, I gotcha.  Have to get you back to the station,” he says, still pushing the air out as he talks between gulps.

“Right, paperwork,” you nod along, smiling a little.  “Well, it’s your turn anyway.  Give ya 30?”

“Yeah?”

“Minutes?”

“Oh fuck you,” Dean grins, wiping his chin. His hand drops from your arm but he steps up beside you, close enough that he has to look down.  His puffing has dropping away and he looks… really well, for someone who doesn’t run.   _That’s his advantage_ , you realise.   _Recovery_.  That and smiling your breath away.

He licks his lips and looks around the field to the treeline, over your head and over to the boundary road beyond the carpark.  “Gimme 5 seconds once I’m outta sight?”

“‘Kay,” you say, instantly realising your error.  He’s going to get the distance without the rush.

He puts his hand back where it was, just below your shoulder, gently this time.  “Didn’t grab you too hard before?”

You laugh. “You can’t grab me too hard,” you say, and one of his eyebrows bounces thoughtfully.

“See you later, loser,” he grins.  

You roll your eyes and grin back.

Did he do this on purpose?  Giving you 3 long minutes of watching this guy walk away?  Look at him go.  Damn.  Every now and then you get to see him walk like this and you always seem to hear… spurs.  Which is weird.

Are you a genius, or a complete idiot?  Couldn’t you have guessed that this sort of game would go this way? Or did you really know and decide to let yourself sabotage one of the best friendships you’ve ever had…  Dean starts to jog and you think of what’s beneath the clothes, the different parts you’ve seen under fluorescent and shitty light, the musculature moving all its bones with that easy trot.  

You spend that extra five seconds snapping out of the trance.

On the road, there’re open fields to the left and carparks to the right.  Dean’s had enough distance that you can’t quite see where he’s turned off the sidewalk.  This time you run light, long steps that don’t pull too hard, let the arch of your foot and achilles spring off the earth.  When you get around the buildings where you reckon he disappeared, you slow enough to investigate the options:  the first one is an office building, closed for the weekend but with some cover around the entrance; then a takeaway store, too small for hiding; then several identical commercial offices with little foyers made from brown glass.  He’s not in them, you can see already, and you tweak.  Heading back, you mean to take a closer look in the first entrance way and end up doing a jogging-walk as you duck in, jittery that you might be wasting your time, imagining Dean leaning against the impala, laughing, wondering where you’d gotten to.

You catch a scuff on the concrete and spin around, Dean having jumped out from a corner and dashing away behind a chest-high bush.  “Hiding?!” you call in surprise.  He gets caught in the branches and you meet him on the lawn, tackling him to the soft ground and sitting on his belly.  

 _“Hiding?!”_ you laugh again.  He lets his hands flop against the grass above his head and groans at himself.

“I hope that’s not your strategy with werewolves,” you grin.  “Five seconds grace and all.”

“I couldn’t get off the street!” he says.

“Keep running!”

“Yeah,” he groans again, hating that he lost.

“Seriously, if we were in training you’d be doing dishes for this,” you grab his shoulders and shake them as you talk, wobbling him silly.  “Keep! Running!”

“I know!” he snaps.  He takes your elbows, pushing them behind your back as he sits up, but you’re on his belly, not his waist, so you fall as he hinges your weight off him and you end up laying on his legs, elbows between his knees, legs around his torso.  You laugh, relaxed and unthreatened, and pretend he isn’t paused there, tongue playing with his teeth while he looks at you, tilted chin to burning thighs, all in his lap.

“I know you know,” you smile at him.

“The field is the best cover, in the tall grass,” he explains, “but I figured it was outta bounds.”

“You’re right. Never woulda looked there,” you admit and he seems happier. You’re feeling a bit exposed. “Let me up, you goof.”

He cocks a smirk, relaxing a little, and pulls you to sit.  In the time it takes to fold your legs and get your feet on the grass - your hands on his shoulders to keep you up, even though he holds your ribs to help - you notice the way he looks at you has changed.  Not new but focused, his nose following yours as you move about.  Even as you stand, his hands guiding you up, he watches you get tall above him, lets the gaze trickle down your body.  

He stands up, brushes himself off, and puts his hands on his hips.  A few seconds pass.  He holds his jaw tight and nods up a little.  “20 seconds,” he says.

“You sure? Don’t wanna make it 10, give yourself a chance?” you stir.

“20 seconds,” he repeats, unmoved.

It’s different.  He’s different, like he’s not really playing any more.  

If you were sensible, you’d make a joke, ask him if he’s okay, mention something unrelated, but you find yourself backing off, noticing how he seems to have revived himself again, like his body’s taken back all the sweat. And he’s watching you go like he has all the time in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve been prey before, but not quite like this. What’s going to happen if you get caught?

You hit the pavement and get as much distance as you can.  The first right is maybe 10 seconds away; a street into a few more office buildings with no good nooks or pathways.  Your steps echo against the concrete and brick, giving you away.  Around another corner and you think you can hear him already - _already?!_ \- and it makes you want to hide again, so you take the next turn too, and the street is uninterrupted for ages, for longer than you can see.  You can’t even tell if the building ahead is a t-intersection or a dead end.  

The sound of Dean running behind you is unnerving.  He sounds faster than before, faster than you at least.  You can’t tell how far back he is and quickly you expect him to say something, make a crack, but he doesn’t.  And then you can hear him breathing too.Fuck.  Dean’s really chasing you, as hard as he can, and _he wants to catch you._

A break between the buildings becomes clear and you turn, right into what is definitely a dead-end street, blocked by a tall chain-wire fence.  It’s higher than the last one you jumped, but there’s a shipping container on the other side; if you can get to the top, then it’s two shorter drops.

Suddenly, he’s there already, close enough you can hear everything and you almost trip over yourself to lean away.  You run-run-run-jump, scramble, and he hooks onto your back pocket, grabs your hip bone with a huge hand, yanking your fingers free of the wire.  Your hips land high on his chest before you fall on your feet, crouching into the drop.  He reaches under your arm, grabs the front of your shoulder and turns you, his forearm across your chest, pressing you into the wire.

You grunt and wince, pulling your head forward as the metal grates against your skull, and Dean’s hand is there, cradling your head from the roughness, and tilting it up.

Reality catches up with you.  A cloud of sweat settles in, and you can smell the freshness of it, beads breaking into streams around your temples, breaths blowing hot and damp. Your hands rest on his waist and ribs and where you’d normally hold the fabric of his shirt, he’s only got one layer in the warm weather, so instead you can feel the softness over the strong muscles of his trunk, tight and hot.

Dean attempts to control his breathing and not puff in your face, but puffing through his nose while he looks at you does nothing to calm you.  Everything’s running too high, all your machinations on automatic and trigger-ready.  It seems like the next thing should be to kiss - an idea that would be show-stopping not one hour ago - and you look at his mouth, the short processes already underway in response.  You don’t even feel your tongue ready itself, pushing against your hard palate and preparing your lips as you look at his, but he does.  He sees your lip drop low and soft, something seeking a taste.  To him it you look ready to be fed honey.  His brow drops ever so slightly, gaze darkening, shoulders bunching a little as he shifts his feet and surprises himself with the thought _Not here_.

He blinks himself present and bites his tongue, just to give the poor thing something to feel.  Carefully he lets up, leans off the fence and drops his arm from your chest, brushing his fingers down your head a little as he steps back.  It doesn’t help though.  He can just see you better now, all of you bright and shining in the evening light, breathing heavily and entirely focused on him.

“We should head back to the car,” he croaks.

You swallow, take a few seconds to tell yourself to stop watching his chest heave, stop interpreting his lips, then slowly nod, unsure of what you’ve gone and done with this game.  “Yeah, good idea,” you say and try to smile, try to ease it all off.

He steps back again and you expect to start leaving, but he says “‘S’your turn.”

“No, you-  You caught me.  It’s your turn to run.”

“I think it’s better when I chase you,” he says steadily.

“Huh,” you laugh, too nervous to listen to your gut.  “You think you’re the better hunter?” you cheek.

“I think you’re the better prey.”

All your hair stands up, prickles through the denim of your jeans, and Dean’s face looks exactly like his words - carnivorous.

“10 seconds,” he says.  There’s about a fifth of him that says _If you want._  The rest is waiting for you to run.

The end of the long road is actually a t-intersection and you take the option towards town.  You’ve got no great goose chase planned, just a speed race based on the fact that you’ve generally got more stamina than Dean.  Your only adjustment is that when you do get near the carpark, rather than head down the nearest road entrance you go a bit further and use an alley that leads to the side.

The shops are well and truly closed and there’s not a soul to see.  All the restaurants are in another part of town.  So when you get to the end of the alley you can see the expanse of the carpark, empty but for the Impala there, looking like a really low budget advert for vintage cars.  It’s perfect and shining, with the sun setting behind Hard as Niall’s Hardware.  

A few feet from the alley’s exit, you silently stop and scan the doorways and shadows but there’s noone.  You can’t see immediately to the left or right though and you’re sure Dean is there, waiting to nab you.  Which you’re not supposed to want this hard.

You hedge your bets and chicken out.  Wherever Dean intends to be, he’s gotta be there by now, so you double back and take the road entrance this time even though it’s more exposed.  It means you can spy from the corner and from there, you can see anyone, if there’s anyone to see.  But no, it really is deserted.  And there’s no sign of Dean.  Not at the entrance to the alley you abandoned, not beside night-lit shops where the dark is darker, and not in the bushes you thought he’d try for cover…

_Where is he?_

You’re starting to feel silly.  Not so silly, though, that you don’t get down to see through the gap under the car and look for a pair of feet.

Nothing.

 _Goddammit._  Maybe he’s looking for you somewhere completely different.  

Unlikely.

You run, use the last of what you’ve got, listening for the deeper version of your _kitch-kitch-kitch-kitch_ on the concrete.  You feel the handcuffs in your back pocket begin to irritate your ass on every reach of your step.

It takes a quarter-second, but then you’re sure the back door is opening, and suddenly it’s flung wide, Dean bursting from the back seat, right at you.  You curse _Shit!_ skidding to a stop to turn away, fingers to the ground as you pivot and take off, and retreat.  

He’s right there, noisy breath breaking little sounds as he pinches your shirt for a second and you bend your waist away, then you can hear him push hard, imagine the way his chin is set.  He runs straight up beside you, hooks an arm around your waist and plucks you off the ground.  You grunt, breathless, leaning on his thick arm as he hinges you off his hip and turns a half circle back towards the car.

Dean drops you down, walking you beside him with both hands hard on your waist and for some reason you’re not giddy with giggles or full of sass.  You’re waiting to see what he’ll say and listening to the way he’s trying not to puff, feeling how clearly his hands and arms direct you.  

He moves you ahead and pushes you against the driver door.  It’s cold and not that comfortable, not compared to Dean’s hard weight at your back.  He leans, boxing you in with hands on the roof outside yours, and lets his cheek lean on your head, pushing slightly, mouth by your ear and letting his breath puff down the side of your neck and face and he makes you give a little and tilt.  He’s burning hot, the fabric between you feeling thinner than ever.

His thumbs brush over the backs of your hands, and he nudges, noses into your damp hairline.  You’re waiting to hear something - it feels like he has some right of reply - then the flash of blue and red swings around the shops, bouncing off glass and signage.  You whisper _Shit,_ and grab the driver door handle, expecting to jump in get away, but Dean shoves it closed again, takes your arm and hauls you to the hood of the car.

The cop car gets closer and closer, and Dean’s shoving you down, all business and no mercy, ribs to the metal as he fishes the cuffs from your pocket.  The motor stops nearby, a car door opens and closes and Dean is in your ear, saying “Gotcha good this time, Y/N,” and for a moment you think the bastard’s going to hand you over.  

The cop car has pulled up on the other side of the Impala, pointing at the rear passenger door.  The shine of the headlights illuminates your head from the inside out.  You turn your head away from the brightness, so you don’t have to hide it your thoughts when Dean stands up straight and leans his thigh against your ass.  He’s taller than you, but you can still detect the bulk of his jeans on your cheek.  You feel the softness between your sitting bones give, feel all of it pushed, and there’s no give on him at all.

“Evening Officer,” Dean says, flashing his own fake ID.  You frown a little, not realising he had his too.

“Evening,” the officer replies.  He looks at you in his shadow, his back to the headlights.  “We got a report of a woman being chased amongst the residences nearby, through the park,” he explains, “and a rumour that some guy got caught on the street.”

Dean rocks against you and you expect to be let off the hood, but instead his hand pushes on your back.  He waits for an actual question, no intention of volunteering anything.

“Terribly coincidental for a little town like us.  Got any news on that?”

“My partner caught her boyfriend a little while ago,” Dean says, “that’s probably who you’re talking about.  Good looker, about yay high, Aquarius?”

The officer takes a second.  “Your partner or her boyfriend?”

Dean’s lost track, doesn’t know which was the answer, so skips it. “Yeah, well this one took a little longer.”  Dean hoists you upright for emphasis.

“You wanna borrow the station for any business?” the officer says.  He shifts his stance, kind of drops his hips one at a time and you wish to hell it didn’t suddenly seem like night time coz you can’t see his creepy face for shit.

“No, we’ll keep them separate, see what we can find out on the way back to Pierre,” Dean nods easily, happy for the cop to take whatever entendre he likes from that.  You don’t move, let him hold your shoulder against his chest and your elbow to his belly, still pinning your lower half to the car.

“You know, ask a few pointed questions.” He looks down at you, “Am I gonna be wastin’ my time?”

“You’ll never make me rat out my Booboo,” you declare, chin first, and dare him to keep a straight face about that.  His grip on your arm tightens.

“Aaaalrighty then,” the officer decides he knows enough.  “Good luck with that.  Call if you need.”

“Thank you Officer” Dean nods, then follows through by leading you into the still open back door, hand on your head and all.

The police car turns around and rolls out the way it came in.  Dean gets in behind the wheel, pausing until he’s happy enough that the cop’s out of sight.  You watch each other in the rear vision mirror.

“So how you gonna get out of this one?” he asks.

“My Booboo will always come for me,” you say, dramatically turning to the window, then think twice about how that sounds.

“Don’t doubt it,” Dean murmurs.  

You turn further, offering your wrists for him to unlock you.  He hooks his elbow over the seat and considers your situation for a moment.  “I don’t have a key,” he says levelly.

You sigh shortly in annoyance, then realise the key’s in your front pocket.  He licks his lips thoughtfully, watching you wait patiently for him to decide what he’s going to do, enjoying it too.

“We’ll fish that out when we find a motel room, okay?”

You nod slowly and settle back, feel a completely different kind of breathlessness begin.

Beyond the car, beside the apothecary, sits the black dog from earlier this evening.  It gets up from it’s spot against the wall and pads a few steps, then looks up, up some more.  Its paws leave the ground as it walks and you’re sure, before it disappears behind the next building, you’re sure that dog damn well walks on it’s hind legs, walks taller and squarer than any Labrador you’ve ever seen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well damn. There is a hunt. And a chase. But the only thing you want to catch now is a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"...Beyond the car, beside the apothecary, sits the black dog from earlier this evening. It gets up from it’s spot against the wall and pads a few steps, then looks up, up some more. Its paws leave the ground as it walks and you’re sure, before it disappears behind the next building, you’re sure that dog damn well walks on it’s hind legs, walks taller and squarer than any Labrador you’ve ever seen.”_

You’re even more sure when you hear Dean whisper “Son of a _bitch.”_

You perch on the edge of your seat and drop your knee so Dean can dive his hand into your front pocket and fish out the key.

“As if Sam’s ever wrong,” you breathe.

“Fuck yeah,” Dean adds, while he works the key.  “The cover is a cover.”

The fun wraps itself up within seconds.  The cuffs are off with barely a touch and, turning back, you know there’s no time to talk about anything but the job.  

“So, two witches?” you start as you both pull your jackets on.

“Yeah, we gonna bust in or have a story?”  He’s focused but seems a little sorry, or annoyed.

“Let’s see if they’ve got any of that extra special hand cream for Sam.”  You share a dark look - nerves high and minds sending _Be careful, I’ve got your back_ \- and it’s pretty much the last contact before you go silent and get out, collecting your gear as quietly as possible to take out the local witch coven in this sweet little town.

The door is in shadow, hidden away, but you knock and call out “Helloooo?” peeking your head through like you’re some gormless tourist.  “Helloooo? Is this the cat and dog place?”

There’s rustling and you see a purple glow reflected along the walls.  It disappears shortly and you keep going in.  “Hello? We’re just… We were looking for…”

As you creep in there are two people standing awkwardly beside a table.  At least, it could be a table, or a tall box, amongst all the other boxes.  Every one is draped in a large sheet, so you don’t know what anything really is.

“Hi!” you peep.  “I’m _so sorry_ to bug you out of hours, but we drove all the way from Maine and we heard about your gorgeous shop.  We’re off again early in the morning, heading through to Arizona and I just wanted to get my sister one of your gorgeous hand creams.  I’m so sorry- I just, jeez thought if you were still at work you wouldn’t mind, but maybe not-”

“No, that’s fine,” says one, all dimples and delight.  “That’s fiiiine, right Helene?”

“Of course,” Helene squeaks.  Her face changes from jowelly to sunshine in half a second. It’s a little disconcerting.

“I’m Sybella.  You two just come on in and get settled.  I mean,” she gestures a little, “obviously, there aren’t any chairs here but you can lean.”

Her partner looks at her strangely but you cover it with grace.  “I can, I’m a great leaner.”

“Helene, maybe you should get that _rejuvenating serum_ we spoke of? Yes?” Sybella nods meaningfully.

“Yes.  Yyyes,” Helene replies. She looks at you, down and up, and then at Dean, down and up… dooooown, then up!  And smiles, “Lickety-split.”

Sybella doesn’t move, so you aren’t able to indicate anything to Dean.  He’s rigid in his casual stance, fingers itching in their fists, so you’re quite confident that he’s making a face at you in his mind, something along the lines of _They’re going to get some witchy crap and do something to us!_ Your mind is making the face that says _Well no shit._

“So… when did you set up the store?” Small talk is good.

“Two years ago,” Sybella says politely.  She looks at Dean and nods happily.

“That must’ve been a huge undertaking,” you prod. “Were you new to the area?”

“Yes, we moved here especially.”

“You and Helene?”

“Helene and I, and Stella and Avril.  They’ll be here shortly.”  Tucked smile, tight cheeks.

You knew it.  If Helene’s taking orders she’s probably the familiar, but that’s not a spell maker, and you figured at least two witches.  How likely is it that you and Dean can keep these guys amiably occupied before the others arrive, without getting trapped?

You nod as though you’re interested and look at Dean “Jumped right in there.”

“Sure did-”

Helene returns with a small jar of cream and Sybella takes a deep and happy breath.  “Well, here we are,” she says and collects the jar with both hands, the two of them sharing a significant look neither of you fail to spot.

“This is honestly the most gorgeous stuff,” Sybella begins.  She turns to you with the jar on her palm, framing it elegantly with her other hand.  “Do try it.”

“Oh, I think I’d rather give my friend an unopened jar,” you say. “A new one.”

“Well, they’ve all been filled and closed by hand, so there’s no such thing,” Helene says, a little too quickly for your liking, “so to speak.”

“Still,” you say, “it would feel wrong-”

Sybella takes your hand as you’re gesturing, her movements graceful but her grip resolute.  Her skin feels silvery, and reminds you of the way an old person’s skin crinkles and smooths.  She looks around 40.  Maybe 50.  What does 50 look like these days?

Her expression remains serene as Helene steps forward to take and open the jar and you dash a look at Dean.  He moves a little closer, sharing your thoughts that this is too rehearsed, and he has no intention of that stuff touching your skin.

“Look, I’ll put it on me first,” Sybella offers, and that’s when you yank, or try to yank, your hand free.  Everything freezes.  Sybella’s grip locks boney and bruising, her eyes steady and her smile plastic.  She has about an inch of patience left.

There’s no saving this.  “Now why would you need to do that?”

Sybella’s face grimaces and doesn’t stop curling till she’s snarled, leaning towards you.  You react, violently and punch her in the nose, square and sharp, and when her head snaps back in place the blood trickles to her lip.  

Dean pulls his gun and Helene leaps, pounces on him with a growl, and knocks him into the boxes.  They grapple and grunt while Sybella seizes your neck with surprising strength and pushes you back too.

The blunt bang of a gunshot makes Sybella jump and when she sees Helene slump to the ground her face contorts in horror. Creases echo across her cheeks and chin and you push her back in her distraught state.

Her eyes lock onto you, watery with rage, and she shrieks _“I’ll kill yooou!!”_

Another shot and her head slumps backwards, red spraying behind her, then settles back on top of her neck. “Nnnnh-” it breathes, one eye slack and rolling on its own.  Her skin sucks itself in then relaxes and slips, like her skull just shrunk, and dull foggy greyness transforms her features into something ancient. She drops her jaw, the bone swimming in all that skin, and leans toward you as if to kiss, or suck.

“WaaAAJESUSfuck!” You cry and hold her back, watching as her neck seems to grow and reach. Dean steps forward, puts the barrel to her temple and fires again. It seems there’s not enough brains left now, and Sybella crumples at your feet.

“You okay?” he checks.

“Yeah you?”  You both got your hands on each other, holding fabric and checking for blood, and once you’re both satisfied you back off, check yourselves and swallow yourselves calm.  “We gotta go,” you mutter, looking at the bodies.

“No, we should wait for the other two and do them too-”

“But the gunshots-”

Dean shakes his head, figuring, “No one here is gonna know what they even were-”  The sound of a door slamming stops you both.  You scramble behind the boxes, but there is no behind, just corners.

Crouching into a shadow as best you can, the sounds of Avril and Stella grow louder and then the door is pushed open and one of them says _“Sybella!”_  Neither of you move till you hear a second voice say “NooOOO!”

Keeping low, both of you move out enough to shoot whoever is closest.  Dean’s target screeches, howling and hissing, and you guess your target is the witch so send an extra shot into her head, just to be sure, then get close enough for a third.  This one transforms too, looking like it might dissolve at any moment.

“C’mon,” Dean says, and you step carefully and quickly between the bodies to leave the way you came.  

You hear sirens.  Someone, eventually, has figured out the gunfire you guess.  Dean takes the time to close and secure the door, which means you’re first back in the car.  The red and blue is already flashing out from one entrance, so you start reversing before Dean’s even closed the passenger door, trying not to squeal the tyres as you leave the other way and take the corners tight and quick.

“That cop’s gonna think again about us,” you mutter.

“If he’s got half a brain,” Dean agrees.  He gets the firearms under the seat, and watches the side streets for anything concerning.

All you want is to have this town behind you.  The police lights and sirens seem to be everywhere, but you don’t actually see the police. You get out of there as fast as you can without drawing attention.

Heading south, you aim for the next mid-sized town.  No one seems to be following, but it doesn’t really help you feel clear and free.

Some miles out you start driving through a forest.  Dean, sitting beside you, finds himself hypnotised by the passing trees. He half thinks, half imagines, whatever it was he expected to happen next back at the carpark.  You were in his backseat, cuffed and caught.   _Caught._  For all the work in these last few hours, he still wishes there was enough light to chase you through the woods.  He steals a glance at you and wonders if you could see how exhilarating it was to be nabbed by you. The memory is enough, he thinks, realising his heart is reliving the feeling too.

After a few minutes of tight bends at low speed, Dean nods you towards a gravel side road.  “Did you wanna drive?” you ask.

“Nah, you’re good, just find a dark spot for a while, let them roll by,” he suggests, so you the side road, tuck the car into a patch down off the barely beaten track and hop out.  Quickly and quietly, the two of you put your weapons away and clean up from the hunt.  You move in sync, knowing each other’s needs and steps, collecting drinks, some food, and a blanket.

The trunk slams shut and Dean’s not sure how to catch you up to where he’s at.  In the darkness though, it feels like everything is in your peripheral vision.  It’s all watching him and you can tell he’s distracted. The light from his phone appears and he says “Do I need cleanin’ up?” holding the glow to his face.

You take the light and move it around his face with nothing to report.  “Nope, spick and span.  What about me?” you say and wait for him.

He turns his phone towards you and you can see his features enough to know how intensely he’s looking at your face.  He tilts your jaw a little, trying to separate shadows from shades, and you feel his skin along the ridge of your jaw.  His palm slides over your neck a little, fingers brushing towards your ear before he lets you go.  You’re so ready to read into it.  You haven’t been able to figure out how much of the game might still be going, nor how much of it wasn’t a game.

A half breath and he swallows, saying “Looks good,” and turns off his phone.

The gear sits on the trunk, ready to go, but you turn back to the road trying to see how close the traffic is, and use looking for a car as cover for why you’re not getting back in the Impala.  After a while, your eyes adjust enough to not need a light to move around, and you can see Dean’s shoulders, his hair and the shine of his cheekbone in the sparse moonlight.

“You think we’re hidden enough here?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, not caring about the road at all.  “Did you-”

You look back at him, give him your attention, because you know he’s not making idle banter, and he’s not talking about the hunt.  “Did you actually have a plan with all that?”

“No, I had no idea,” you confess, quick and honest.  

It’s dark enough, you think.  You step forward and reach up with your face, tiptoeing already, but he meets you before you get there, leaning down for it and your noses bump and guide, quickly locking your lips together, warm and full, feeling him move against you with emphasis. Then, in the quiet night, the sound of the kiss snapping short rings nostalgic and promising.  You want to hear it again, want that sweet, gorgeous sound to come between you again.  But it’s his turn to answer so you look up and wait.

He’s leaning a little, and you can see the edge of his collar and ear, maybe the twitch of his eyelash when he tilts to you a little, a gentle sucking sound coming from his lips.  You wonder what he can see of you.

“Did you mind?” you ask.  “Have I… scrambled things?”

“No.  It’s all good… think the next time will be a bit different, though.”

Next time?  “You wanna set some rules?”

“Yeah… like what am I allowed to do next time I catch you?”

He’s not kissing you back, but he’s talking like he wants to. Your heart feels like it’s throwing itself against your ribcage, nudging you forward with all its might.

“It’d probably-” you clear your throat, for bravery. “It’d probably be easier to list what you’re not allowed to do.”

His hand takes your forearm, but his grasp freezes as sirens echo across the landscape.  You both turn towards the noise, and in a second you can see lights dancing amongst the trees.  You see, too, that there’s no edge to the forest and that it’s not as dense as you’d hoped.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because you've stopped running, doesn't mean there's nothing to chase.

Your fingers find the front of his jacket and hold tight.

“You go,” he says, “I’ll decoy.”

Neither of you move, the lights and sirens seeming to take forever through the winding paths.  You both watch and after a second he pushes a little, “Go on-”

“No, they know there’s two of us.  They don’t know they’re witches, they’ll think we used chemicals to change the bodies or something.”  You shift your feet, steadying yourself beside him and turning to the road properly, should the police come this way.  He lets your arm go, watches you stand a little in front of him.  “We’ll bust out if they catch us,” you decide, and wait.

Dean’s fingers find your hip and squeeze.  The lights disappear then swing again, much closer, siren wailing, and Dean breaks saying “Get the blanket!” Leaving the other stuff on the trunk, he unfurls the blanket your way and you hastily drape it over the back of the car, cloaking the shine from roof to bumper.

Dean reaches for your arm, getting the fabric of your sleeve and moves as soon as he has purchase.  He’s fast enough, tall and strong enough, to have you running like gravity as eased off a bit and you dash between the trees.  The bushes about your legs slow you down, and you can see what you think is a rocky outcrop worth using for cover, but getting there is like trying to sprint through the surf.  Dean’s grip on your sleeve starts twisting the fabric tight around your arm, and you let him lead you for a few seconds while you look back and see a tunnel of light tumble onto the overgrown road, right behind the tail of the impala.

“Shit!” you peep.  “Hide! _Hide!”_

Dean hears the engine get closer, turns towards the large boulders and both of you start stumbling with your hands before you, reaching for whatever is waist high, shoulder high, you’re not sure in the darkness.  Your shoes slop over rocks and emerged tree roots and thump down in the gaps.  Dean swings you around himself, pivoting your weight off the centre of his, into the nook he thinks he’s found.  You turn to look back, chest to chest with just inches between you.

Baby sits in a patch between the trees, and you can tell now that finding a space that large was a miracle in itself.  It’s still now, quiet, the police car having stopped short of your view, parked somewhere on the other side of the rocks. It’s headlights shine endlessly, illuminating the teeth-chattering dirt track full of rivulet-made little canyons, terrain that would’ve stopped Baby within a few yards.

You can see the light spill onto the blanket.  Her body shines at you, barely the rear third of her covered by the grey wool and she seems like a toddler with a wash cloth on her head for a game of hide-and-seek.

You hear a car door slam and both of you suck in a breath and hold it.  You’re sure, positive, that they’ll see the unusual angles, go over to inspect, and find the car.  Footsteps begin and you can’t tell how far it is between the vehicles.  For some blessed reason, the officer hasn’t thought to pull out a flashlight.  They're still walking, unhurried and out of sight.  You twist your grip on Dean’s jacket.   _Be small Baby!_

All of you is held so tightly that you really can’t tell which of you slips, but someone has a shoe on something tall and smooth and they drop, both of you tilting perilously, and you swallow a squeak as Dean grabs your shoulders and snatches you to him.  You grab his ribs and cling, looking back at the car and taking heart that the shadows breaking the headlight beams haven’t stopped moving, suggesting that at least they’re not stopping to listen.  Your ear is pressed to his chest but you have to pull away from the noise of his pummelling heart, just so you can focus. You both watch and begin breathing again.   _How can they not see that great big **frikken car?!**  _

Then the steps of the police officer pause, the shadow swaying still, and you still wish that the four feet you’re perched on were just a bit more stable, a bit less overlapping.  You lift one and place it down elsewhere, hoping you’ve found flat, twig-free ground, but you haven’t and when you “oop!” sideways - _so, so quietly_ \- Dean puts his fingers on your lips, reining you in with a broad hand on your back, and you think he makes a noise too so do the same.  You have your fingertips on his mouth and they feel the corners pull back, his breath flowing down the knuckles.  His slides his fingers over your lips so that the outside edge of his palm tucks under your nose, a close grip cupping over your chin, and his lips smile more as your breath billows, threatening your secrecy.  At least your feet are flat.

You don’t even hear the trill of the phone, just the faint swearing and gruff response of the officer, as he kicks the stones.  He seems to get louder and Dean leans down, talks as though your fingers aren’t even there and your touch slips to his chin and neck as he reaches and whispers in your ear “He won’t find her.  She’s the Batmobile.”

You breathe out and in, quick but limited.  It’s not even that funny but the ridiculousness of choosing now to make a crack almost has you bursting into giggles.

“Yeah, there’s nothing here.  Where are you?” you hear, the words crisp through the night air.

Dean lifts his head again and presses his hand, tilting your head back.  You can see the outline of the rocks behind him, feel where he is, and you scan the darkness for a glint where you think his eyes must be.  He can see yours though and watches them search, the delicate arch of your brow barely discernible just inches from his face, the movement of your eyelashes possibly detected by your jittery glistening eyes.

The officer’s voice grows quieter, and you wait to hear some sign that he’s leaving but there’s nothing yet.  Just the quiet scratch of Dean’s jacket against the stone behind him as he bends you backwards, more than necessary, to whisper in your ear again.  He puts his lips right on your ear and says “Should I cuff you and march you out there,… ask him if we can use the station after all?”

Then the sound of a car door echoes and the cop car revs to life, reversing back up the lane and switching on the sirens.  They blare, so much louder than you remember, and in moments, the lights all but disappear, the noise along with them.  Four seconds later there’s silence again and neither of you have moved a muscle, tight and coiled.

The two of you push apart, racing each other back to the car.  You’re just ahead of him, or he keeps behind you, and doesn’t try to hold you back.  Together you lift off the blanket, Dean wrapping it up and scooping the food on top of the bundle.  You collect the drinks and follow him around to the passenger side.

“Should we go?” you think aloud. “I mean, we should head back and keep going south, get some distance before daylight, right?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, “but they’ve passed us.”  Dean opens the front door and shoves everything in, takes the drinks from you and dumps them too.

“We’re inside their zone now-”

“They’ll think they’ve done this spot-”

“But we’re too close-”

“No we’re not,” he insists and comes right up to your chest, close enough to bump you back to the car.  “Tell me what I can do,” he asks and nudges your temple with his nose.  Even out in the open, all you can see is a different kind of darkness, but it’s warm and moving.  Without a distraction, your senses prick sharp and he suddenly smells of the day’s sweat mixed with cologne and someone’s breath, and there are sounds of fabric and breath bouncing between you as the forest’s noises are sheltered by his height.  Fingers find your waist and spider up to your ribs, then thighs press into yours, and you look up, see nothing, but feel how near his breath is as it moves over your face.  Your mind’s eye fills it all in, and when you reach for the zipper on his jacket, your aim is accurate.

He feels the tug and hears the teeth give way, then your hair shifts under his chin, fingers pulling the button panel of the henley and then lips, he’s sure, lips that feel hot in the night, kiss his chest, and there’s the kitten-lick feel of you tasting his salty skin on the second go.

In the dark, he guides you, firmly but steadily enough for you to resist, rolls you sideways so you’re turned toward the trunk and he can hold your hips against the side of the car.

He pushes your legs against the panels with his own.  It’s enough to lift you a little and the stillness is broken again with your hands thudding onto the trunk. The pressure of his hands sliding up your sides makes you breathe deep and he bends you both down slowly, nibbling at your ear, cheek, whatever he meets when you turn your head. A finger or two is hooked into your collar so he can reach some skin and he kisses your neck, like you did him, before asking “Can I do this?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, blinking to check if your eyes are open.  

Handcuffs are slid from your pocket and jangle before they’re looped warm and hard over one wrist, your arms then pulled behind you to meet, the zipping sound creaking slow on the last lock.  

The car’s metal is cold and uncomfortable, but here you can feel him push against your body, pressing into the seat of your jeans in a way that suggests and ignites.  You push and scramble your fingers down his front, over your ass, arch yourself to find and hook fingers into the pockets of his jeans and pull him against you.  He rubs his forehead against you breaking a moan as his jeans tight around him.

“God, I want you like this so badly, Y/N,” he says, rocking against you a few times in a quick, shallow pulse. You hum in reply, too distracted by the sensations to show your surprise, and manage to say “Yeah…  Yes.  Me too.”

“Maybe next time huh?” he adds.  You fumble around and find the edges of his jacket, shirt, and drag your fingers over the skin you can reach, pulling them up, creeping them down.  

“Yes please,” you sigh, embarrassed for your choked reply.  “I want to see… hold you.”

He laughs a little and pulls you up to turn and face him.  “Little tricky tonight,” he says.  “We should save our phone batteries.  But you’re right…” He opens the back door and sits on the seat pulling you along.  “Next best thing?”

Guiding you to follow him, he reaches up to shield your head as you duck down and kneel on the seat.  He holds you firmly by the ribs, taking some of your weight in the awkward space until you’re settled in his lap, straddling his thighs, wondering how much room you have above you.

Dean pulls the door closed and you blink again, wishing the graininess would go away, letting your eyes close anyway when his palm, hot and dry, lands over your ear and leads you to him.  His kiss is sweet and steady, a repeat of before, and there’s that gorgeous snap.  You smile, which he feels with his hand and lips.  “What?” he smiles back.

“Nothin’” you say.  “‘S’nice.”

“Mmmm. I’ve been fighting off thinking about this for a long time.”

“Really?” You adjust yourself a little bit, nudge and peck, nervous but keen.  “I gave up fighting it ages ago.  Dunno why I didn’t think of that when I started the chase.”

“Fucking brilliant idea,” he murmurs.  Your jacket zip feels tugged, then dragged down and apart, pushed open and off your shoulders.  You try to manage your breath, hope he doesn’t notice too much, but his hands feel so big across your chest and belly.  He leans up to kiss you, his seemingly huge fingers slipping around your head to pull you close and tilt.  Then it’s as though he’s making up for the two hands missing, sliding his hold over your hair, pulling gently on your neck, tugging your chest close to his as he leans back on the seat.

“Okay?” he checks.

“Yeah,” you say, and let your knees slide along the crease of the seat to get as close as you can.  

“Mmm yeah,” he murmurs.  He tucks his grip on your ass, slides himself lower, and kisses you again as the flies of your jeans meet.  There, he rolls you and rocks himself, sharing the pressure, and you break breath together.  You hum when it feels good, he hums back because it always does, and you start to kiss him harder, his head resting back when you lick and reach a little harder because soon it ebbs between good and damn good.  And he’s under you, pulling and pushing, his heat building and warming you, and you move above him close, following, to show him how you’d pull too if you could.

His palm slides down your neck, over your breast, and over the tight fabric of your t-shirt and sports bra. He drags his fingertips and nails, searching for where it gives a little more.  When you suck in a breath and flinch, he strums bluntly, tickling your nipple until it strains against the material and you pick your head up to breathe and bite your lip.

Dean kisses your jaw, nuzzling and biting the muscle of your neck as he keeps you everywhere - leaning on his cock, warm against his body, near enough to taste - and moves himself to sample it all.  

“Y/N, you feel so goddamn sexy,” he nudges your chin up, sits up a little.  “Can I go here?” he asks, firmly knuckling over the front of your jeans.

“Mmm, yeah, but I want my hands,” you say, swallowing to get some moisture back in your mouth.

Dean sits up properly, pulling you with him.  He lays his forearm in front of your shoulder and cups the back of your neck, guiding you to rest your shoulder blades against the front bench seat.  It’s all sensations in the dark: Knuckles low on your belly, your jeans tugged, released, then easing loose, and then the tough smoothness of his fingers finds the gentle skin at the elastic, brushing down over the cotton and making some room between you and the denim.  With a rough tug, he makes more space, then cups, feels your shape and size, where you’re thick over the bone, then tests the dint and give, and rolls the pressure of his hand.  He feels your ass and thighs tighten around him as he moves, squeezing his hips a little, and even though his eyes are open he can’t see a thing, so runs his hand down your neck again, across your chest and waist, back up to thumb your cheek and brow and hair, mapping you out.

Leaning over as far as he can, Dean gets his lips to yours, but it’s awkward reaching around his forearm.  He shoves your shirt up, beyond your bra, and kisses your chest instead.  “You sound gorgeous,” he tells you and you laugh a little in reply.

“You feel…” And you lose your damn place while you feel.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Give me my hands so I can feel more,” you ask.

“You don’t need hands for more,” he says and the waistband of your panties is lifted, fingertips tucking inside, brushing over the hair and pushing into the heat.  You lengthen and buck slowly, breathing _Uhh Dean_ before you gasp and moan. You know it’s not that hard to find, but the way he knows it steals your breath. He circles and slowly flicks, sweeping upwards over and over, then dips into the slippery depths to take some wetness and spread it around. The circling grows firmer, your hips chasing it, and everything yanks tight when he flicks again, harder this time.

“Oh! Shit, Dean!” You’re gasping, freely showing your pleasure in the pitch black. “Please give me my hands.”

“Gimme 20 seconds first,” he says and loops his arm around your waist before he begins.

You gasp, feeling the pressure change. “What?”  

He circles a few times, with speed, then says “Think I can make you come in another 18?”

“Dean!” you pull from him a bit, unable to focus under the pleasure.  “Shshshs-”

“You ever come that fast before?” Quickly now he drags two fingers on either side of your clit, pinching and tripping and you frown and cry out.  “10 seconds Y/N.  You gunna-?”

“Oh Jesus! Dean!” you arch and buck, levering between him and the seat behind.  He circles a few more times, then flicks back and forth, snatching his hold on your hips when you pull away and nuzzles under your chin.  

“5, Y/N,-”

“AahFuck!” It’s not enough, too much too soon-

“3-fuck-2, 1,” and he stops his hand and stills his touch either side of your clit, moving with your little thrusts to keep from giving.  Both of you breathe heavily, yours with a high ache, keening a little, squeezing him with your knees enough to make him grunt. Dean seems to sit up, his holding hand sliding across your back to get a handful of ribs.  

You puff, whining shortly through gritted teeth, frustrated and wanting.  “20 more,” you demand, then shift your hips left so that his thigh is under you, right hand sandwiched between, and you roughly scoop your pelvis to force his hand a bit deeper when his elbow hits the seat. Dean cottons on quick-smart - “Holy shit, Y/N, _Yes_ ,” - and drops his shoulder to reach inside, two fingers tucking and stroking.  You _Aah!_ loud and deep and lean forward to push your weight into his hand and control it with your knees.  

Face to face, your moans blur with his curses - his lips forming the quick words inside yours - as you fuck yourself on his fingers.  His kissing is hungry, his spare hand in your hair now, while he feels you rub your pussy into his palm hard enough for the Fate line to get smearing wet.  He doesn’t care that the zipper is biting into his knuckles; he’s holding your weight and pleasure and it makes him want more.

“15 seconds Y/N.  14, c’mon, use my fingers,” he grits.  _13_ Starting a steady brush, “12 - Come on, let me hear it” _11_ he drags fingernails over the soft cups _10_ again, searching and making you cry out, _9_ gets his lips by your ear _8_ holds you still by the waist _7_ and runs inside you harder _6_   “That’s it” and harder _5_ counting down through his teeth “4, 3, _come_ -on, 2, 1-”

One mean nudge with the heel of his hand stabs pleasure into your clit, feels like a smack of electricity and you thunk your forehead to his shoulder, crying out as you curl, pulling on the handcuffs and trembling from your belly right through your seat.  He makes a punching groan, something short and surprised, right in your ear, and you savour the feel of him coughing  _God! Damn!_ , his lips dragging over the shell as he gasps and swallows.  He picks your head up by the jaw and kisses you more, lapping up your muffled whimpering and hugging your softness firmly.

“Sonofabitch,” he puffs again. “Fuck!”

“Cuffs!” you sigh.  “Please-”

Fingers dig and shuffle through the creases now low on your hip and soon you feel him fishing for the little key. Then he’s reaching around you and releasing the metal, letting it fall to the floor.  

You snatch onto his head, pulling him close for a kiss.  For a second he rubs your wrists but you’re kissing him hard, pushing him back and leaning your bare belly against him with your jacket off your shoulders and cleavage heaving under the hem of your gathered top, so he slides his palms up and down your back and dives into the back of your loose jeans, cupping your ass to haul you close again and hum in reply.

Nose to nose, you slide off his leg, turning to fall backwards onto the seat and pull him with you, get his breadth between your legs and in your arms.  

He leans on his forearms and brushes your hair, grunting at you nudging him with your hips.

“What do you need?” you ask, slack and writhing, pulling on his waist.  “Name it.”

“Uh… time,” he says sheepishly.

“What do you mean?” you slow and look, even though you can’t see.

“I uh… you kept rubbing your thigh over me…”

“Oh, Booboo…. You came for me?” you smile, dragging your thumbs over his cheeks kindly.

“Well, Booboo thought that was fucking hot,” he chuckles.  “After all the chasing, and catching… Sorry-”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” you tell him, and start kissing all over his face.  “I love it.”

He tucks and burrows into your neck, brushes and breathes you in with nibbling kisses in the corners above your shoulders.

“Okay, now?” you ask.  “Now should we go?  You wanna change first?”

“Yeah,” he agrees.  “I’m gonna clean up and then we’re outta here.  And we’re gonna find a motel by a forest.”

“Why?” you wonder, brushing your touch over his eyebrow and cheek, your mind easily filling in what your fingers can see.

“’Cause next time I’m chasing you cross-country,” he says, his grin so easy to hear, “now that I know my prey.”

* * *

As soon as you’re fit to move, you find a torrent of texts from Sam that demand a reply.  You tell him about the discovery of the witches; he tells you about the alarming things he’s heard on the police scanner.  He pretty much commands you to drive the 8hrs back right now and makes you promise you won’t stop before Alliance, Nebraska.  

So there is no motel-by-a-forest, at least not tonight.  

Dean lays his arm along the back of the seat, scoffing “What are you doing over there?”  You roll your eyes and slide in place, let him pull you close, and arrange yourself for a drive-time snuggle.  You end up with your forehead flush against his neck and for a while he can drive in an easy straight line and let his mind run over your warmth as he feels it, and how he can squeeze his fingers on your arm and you’ll drag yours across his belly or chest in reply.  After a while he realises your eyelashes have stopped flicking against his skin and he pats you awake. “Hey, nap in the back.  Swap at Alliance.”

You grunt, “Hmmkay,” and rub him some more.  “Don’t stop driving or we’ll never make it home.”

He hums in agreement, managing to keep a steady heading while you kiss your tongue behind his ear, strong enough for him to look at the road at an angle while you firmly trace four of the grooves between his ribs.  He doesn’t groan, just breaks a breath on a warning  _Baby_ , then shifts in his seat as you slide over into the back.  You take a second to nose into the short strands behind his ear again and kiss with a soft “Night Booboo,” before curling up on the leather and getting a well earned rest.

“Hey you know,” you sigh, tucking the blanket warm, “there’re woods right outside the bunker…”


End file.
